The concept of Deity is one with which I've wrestled for much of my life. Having won an award in a recent Christian poetry competition, I might be assumed to be steeped in that faith. However, I have many questions. I'm a sincere seeker after the truths of God, but I don't always manage to keep my feet on a singular path.

I believe that the sacred imbues everything -- from whirling nebulae to motes of pollen. I see evidence of God wherever I turn, but the exact nature of that God-Being is unclear to me. The association of maleness with the Judeo-Christian divinity is unsettling, to my mind. Although I'm not Catholic, I was an admirer of Pope John Paul's tenacity, and his personal conviction that the feminine principal -- as embodied by Mary -- has a place in Christian teaching. I wrote the villanelle, "Miriam's Exam", about this particular issue. It is included on a previous page.

The "Pope" poem is my attempt to come to terms with the concept of a divine hierarchy, one that includes us all, from Holy Fathers down to the lowliest beasts. As I have several pets and horses, I've tended to feel that animals, too, possess some sort of soul or indwelling spirituality. It isn't excpressed in human form, of course, but I would find it very difficult to consider a much-loved cat or dog as being devoid of anything beyond mere physical presence. There is a certain nobility about most animals that must come from a force beyond themselves. I wish I could detect it more often among humanity! - Brenda

Monologic

We fly too slowly, so the stars outrace us every time. We plead with God to show the origins of light, that sacred place where fiery nuclei erupt and grow. Yet He is mute. We blame His voiceless sky, and send up further questions. Midnight sings to us but we refuse to hear, and sigh for better words, while our imaginings prove nothing – neither doom nor deity. Mistaking quietness for void, we claim there is no alpha, no theology enough to span the universe. We name ourselves omega, last and best, then seek contention – from the One who will not speak.

Brenda Tate 2006

Barn-Radio Flash: “The Pope is Dead”

“He has gone to the Father.” So, the word

is tangled with this evening’s other news.

I think on holy men, and how they break

those teeth sharpened for all of us, click-clack

jaws from the clouds, spitting naked pilgrims.

Beneath my wheelbarrow, a luckless mole

rots in the sawdust pile. I think perhaps

he burned in confrontation with the light:

too much blaze, sent against too little brain.

Unhidden quiver-tail, he sought the sky,

but now the velvet dries around his bones.

Has any part of him found its way up

to where some rat’s-head deity presides

over legions of varmints, with pink soles

and stars for noses? Or is he empty,

not anything at all? No Sire but the scuff

of sand against a panting squint-eyed dam,

crouched in her lusty tunnel? I exhale,

marry the corpse to clay with my boot heel,

then drive a pitchfork tine through its small stain.

Brenda Tate 2006

White-Throated Sparrow

You stroke the crystal rim of sky, invade

our Friday quiet. Operatic trillsfestoon the spruce and briars like a braid

until we trace its source. But what mischance has caught you on this barb, which now impalesyour body with its crucifying spikes?You bleed in music, though its cadence failsto turn aside two predatory shrikes.

We cry out as they tear you wing from wing,

yet even as your breast is speared, you sing.

This poem won a Merit Award and was also judged Best Rhyming Poem in the 2005 Utmost Christian Writers Poetry Contest, open to allwho wished to enter. Visit the site at www.utmostchristianwriters.com

Assumption

The singer in the rubble lifts her eyestoward auburn horizons, where new firescorrupt a stellar offering of light.

She intones blood, its iron scent of redblended with peat and leaf mould, dark as tea,deep pressed by boots, steaming infectious breath.

But when all songs are done, the air opensinto a funnel throat that drains her voice -with all its stars and ashes - to the dregs.

Sightless and still, the last musician prays(while she imbibes the winy scent of God)to be drunk. Then His greedy mouth descends.

This is my post-Apocalyptic vision! The latter-day Cassandra has no further need of her own prophetic gifts. Should this ever come to pass, it will be humanity who is to blame for it.

Exit

"When we are born, we cry that we are come to this great stage of fools." – King Lear

A distant master animates my cords.They pulse; he pushes me to act. But whenhe ceases, will I drop upon the boards,an empty puppet? Not to move againis past my contemplation, yet I knowthe power that illumines from on highcan burst my veins in flame, replace their flowwith stellar currents. Thus, for me to diewill offer no quick darkness, no regret,but merely an ascent. The over-soulthat waits above these wings will serve me yet,my guide to brighter stage and larger role.

No more a wooden actor, I'll arise;sing tongues of fire; fling comets through my eyes.

Yes, there is some assurance that we are more than the sums of our parts!

These miraculous stained-glass windows are all located in St. James Anglican Church at Mahone Bay. Most have been placed in memoriam to various individuals, one of whom was a victim of the Halifax Explosion. They are truly remarkable, and the church welcomes visitors.

Contact me by leaving a message in my guest book or emailing "webmaster" at "brendatate.com" (remove quotation marks and use @ instead of "at") - this will forward to a regular Inbox with a strong spam filter. I'm sick of spam! I'd only be interested in selling one of my own books or promoting a friend's publications. I will, however, add links to writing-related websites if I feel they will appeal to visitors.